


Your Voice in Every Noise

by Molias



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Communication, Crying, Kissing, M/M, Oral Sex, The finest Cyberlife-brand Self-lubricating Asshole Money Can Buy, fantasies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-06 08:16:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20288314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Molias/pseuds/Molias
Summary: Hank can't help feeling guilty about the sexual fantasies he has about Connor. He can't stop himself from having them, either. Turns out: Connor doesn't want him to stop.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is another thread from [twitter](http://twitter.com/robofingering) that I cleaned up to post here!

Hank feels like a super creep thinking about Connor when he jerks off. He can't even begin to entertain the idea Connor might return his feelings and hates himself for thinking about him this way when he's sure his sexual interest would be unwelcome, but he can't _quite_ keep himself from doing it at all. He tries, god knows he does, but at the end of the day he's too weak. Hank has few enough pleasures, and when it's dark and he's tired and aching for connection he can't help but wrap himself in thoughts of what he'd do with Connor, if only he could.

  
He only lets himself think about certain things, at first. Safer thoughts: Connor disrobing for him, long-limbed and pale and lovely. Kissing Connor's neck, tracing the patterns of freckles across his shoulders, imagining the sounds he might make. Not chaste fantasies by any means, but he feels marginally less ashamed of himself if he can have some restraint.

  
It doesn't last. Restraint can only hold out for so long.

  
Hank imagines kissing his way down Connor's slim torso, taking him in his mouth, moaning as Connor pulls his hair and bucks up into his throat. He thinks about Connor riding him, pinning his wrists down on the bed while he takes what he needs.

  
The first time he lets his mind wander in this direction, he comes so hard he nearly pulls a muscle in his leg. Guilt washes over him, but still his resistance is lower the next time he lets himself think about Connor that way. He can't stop.

  
He imagines Connor calling him _baby_ while fucking him deep and slow, and he's deeply embarrassed when he cries a little at the thought of it, even though no one's around to see his red, blotchy face. He feels pitiful that he wants to be wanted like this, the way he wants Connor. Pitiful and selfish.

  
Hank's time to be an object of desire has passed, if it ever was that time for him at all. This fact hurts now in a way it never has. He never cared about this, before Connor, and now that he does, he spends a great deal of effort to shove the feeling aside.

  
After a while, perhaps inevitably, things become tense between them. Hank's so uncomfortable with the fantasies he can't stop himself from indulging in that he pulls away from Connor a bit, as if that would remove the temptation or make his feelings diminish. All it does is hurt Connor's feelings.

  
Connor corners him one night, when he's had enough to drink that he's feeling looser than usual but not so shitfaced he can't string a coherent sentence together. He asks why Hank's upset with him, what he's done wrong.

"It's not you," Hank says. "I'm just an asshole. I'm sorry."

Connor looks so sad at this that Hank hates himself just a little bit more for putting him through all of this. He gulps down the rest of his glass of rye, too quickly, but the burn is a helpful distraction.

"What is it, then?" Connor asks. "It's something, even if it's not me. You go to bed early even though I know you're still awake, you won't stand close to me or even sit next to me when we're at home, and you've barely spoken to me for the past two weeks. Ben asked me yesterday if we were fighting."

Hank winced at that. "What did you say?"

"I told him that as far as I know, we are not, but that I understood why he asked. Can you help me understand what's happened between us?"

_Between us, he says, like we're together,_ Hank thinks. He's lost track of the bottle of rye--did Connor move it?--but he wishes he had it. "You won't like it," he mumbles. "You'll want to leave."

"I don't think so," Connor says calmly, "but I can't know if you won't talk to me."

Hank leans his head against the back of the couch and stares at the ceiling. If he's been so bad at hiding his discomfort from Connor that folks at work are noticing, he's fucked either way. May as well come clean about it. He already feels pathetic enough.

"I think about you," he says slowly, "like...like I shouldn't."

"Like how?" Connor asks.

Hank waves his hand aimlessly in the air as if he could conjure up a vision of his fantasies to save himself the embarrassment of discussing them. "I want..." he starts. His hand thumps down on the armrest. He feels like he's made of lead, dropping to the bottom of the ocean.

"I want you," he says, "like I've never wanted anyone in my whole fucking life, and sometimes I think about what it would be like if you wanted me that much, and if I could--" he lifts his hand again, briefly, but can't bring himself to reach out. "If I could touch you like I want to."

Connor just watches him, eyes wide and calm.

"And you don't deserve that shit from me," Hank continues. "It isn't fair to think about you that way, so I tried to stop but. I can't. And I don't want you to know about any of it." He laughs and tips his glass up to capture the single drop left there. "Too late for that now, I guess."

"Thank you for telling me," Connor says softly. His face is still completely unreadable; Hank's gotten better at parsing out his expressions, but he has no idea what he's seeing now. The LED is a soft yellow pulse at his temple.

"No," Hank says, harsher than he means to. "That's the wrong answer. 'Hank, you're disgusting, I'm going to stay with my beautiful android friends who'd never think of me that way, I hope your dick rots off,' that's how it should go. Try it."

"I'm not going to try it," Connor says, and now he sounds exasperated. Good. That's halfway to the anger he should be feeling right now. Hank _wants_ him to be angry, knows he deserves it. He doesn't know how to deal with this placid acceptance of what he's said.

"Sure, write your own script. 'Fuck you, Hank' is a good one, too. I believe in you." Hank's head is swimming, and he tries to remember just how much booze he knocked back all at once.

"I'm not going to tell you to fuck off. I want to know what else you were thinking."

Hank hadn't really noticed that he'd closed his eyes, but he cracks them open again. He squints at Connor, who's taken a seat on the couch beside him. "What?"

"You said," Connor says, "you thought about what it would be like if you could touch me, if I wanted you in the same way."

Hank nods, embarrassed.

"What did you think about?"

"Uh," Hank says. "I don't. Um. Specifically? Specific things."

"Yes."

"If you want to make fun of me, don't you have enough to go on already? Do you need to push like this? You don't want to hear this shit, Connor." Hank puts his head in his hands. "I'm sorry, I really am."

"Hank," Connor says softly. He waits until Hank lifts his head to look at him, and places a hand on Hank's sternum and pushes just hard enough that he slumps back against the couch with a startled grunt.

Hank's eyes struggle to focus as Connor climbs onto his lap. "Why are you--"

Hank shifts under Connor's weight, convinced at first that this is a test he's failing, that he needs to get up, but Connor's hand is still there, still pinning him in place. Fuck. His dick can't do much when he's this drunk but he still feels it twitch. "Let's trade," Connor says. His mouth is so close to Hank's ear that he can feel his breath, slightly warmer than a human's. "If you tell me something you like to think about, when you imagine what it would be like if I wanted you, then I'll tell you one of mine."

"Kissing you," Hank manages to say. He's not sure he entirely understands what's happening, but Connor's hand is a solid point of contact he can focus on. And Connor's asked him, so he guesses it's safe to answer. "Maybe with you up on my lap, uh, like you are now."

"Seeing where you're sensitive."

"That sounds nice," Connor murmurs, still very close. "My mouth has so much sensory equipment in it, kissing should be very pleasurable." He leans back slightly and traces a path down the column of his neck with his free hand. "I think I might be particularly sensitive here." Connor strokes the underside of his forearm. "Maybe here as well. Hmm."

He takes a moment to think, then squeezes his inner thigh, fingers just barely brushing against Hank's leg.

Hank's mouth is suddenly very try.

"But I'd probably be most sensitive here."

Hank just nods; he doesn't trust himself to speak. The alcohol's fogging his brain, but even without it this would feel unreal.

"My turn now," Connor says. "I like to think about you running your fingers through my hair," he says. "Or pulling it. I think I'd enjoy that."

And oh, it's an appealing thought, one that's made an appearance in Hank's fantasies as well. Without thinking, Hank lifts a hand to touch Connor's hair, but he intercepts it smoothly.

"No, we're just talking now," Connor says, and pins each of Hank's hands beside him on the couch. His grip is gentle but firm; Hank has no desire to struggle, but he suspects that if he did, he wouldn't be able to get anywhere.

"I want to," Hank says roughly. "Fuck."

Connor shifts slightly on Hank's lap, brushing against his half-hard dick, and Hank moans softly. "This is one," he manages to say. "You holding me down like this."

"Is that all?" Connor asks, with a wicked gleam in his eye.

Hank can feel himself sweating under the intensity of Connor's gaze, the scrutiny he's opening himself up to.

"No." He can't--he can't say it all.

"Please," Connor says, close to his ear again. Hank can feel that he's hard too, pressed up against Hank's soft belly, and he thinks maybe he's going to die. Maybe he's already dead and an incubus is torturing him in Hell. "Please tell me the rest."

"You holding me down, and." Hank closes his eyes. He can't look at Connor as he says this."Fucking yourself open on me, taking your time. Not letting me move until you say I can. Using--using me however you want."

"That's one of mine too," Connor purrs. "A favorite."

"I want to taste your ejaculate," Connor says then, like it's the most natural thing to say, like he isn't completely in control of a game Hank doesn't quite understand. The weirdness of this situation, the booze in his gut, his worries about thinking about Connor this way; all of them crash together.

"Jesus, Connor, you can't just say these things like you--"

"Like I what?"

Connor is so close, and Hank knows he could just lean forward and kiss him; despite being pinned down he has that much room. But it feels like there's still so much space between them, and he isn't sure if he's allowed to close that gap just yet.

"Like you mean them."

Connor's face falls. He lets go of Hank's wrists and presses his hands to either side of his face, his fingers tangling in Hank's beard. "This is--Hank, all of this is completely sincere on my part. I wouldn't tell you any of these things if they weren't true." He deflates a bit, forehead resting against Hank's. "How about. How about we go back to the first thing you said."

"The first...?"

"Kissing."

Still cupping Hank's face, Connor tilts his head down and presses his lips gently, tentatively, to Hank's mouth. "This is what I think about too," he whispers, and kisses him again.

Hank sighs, a small sound in the back of his throat, and parts his lips. Connor's mouth is so warm.

There's a deep relief, Hank thinks, to kissing Connor - to wrapping his arms around him and pulling him closer - and feeling some of the shame that's plagued him for weeks bleed away. Not all of it, god no, but he feels it fading. "I thought you'd be upset with me," he murmurs against Connor's cheek. "I couldn't stop thinking about you."

"I don't want you to stop."

"Yeah, okay." Hank doesn't know what to do, but kissing Connor seems to be safe now, and it's what he wants anyway so he goes for it. Connor makes a soft, happy noise into Hank's mouth when he slides a hand into his hair and pulls, very gently.

"Oh," Connor says, breaking the kiss with a sound that raises the hair along Hank's forearms. "I thought I'd guessed how good it would feel, but..."

"Is this better?"

"So much better than I imagined, yes."

"What else?"

Connor pulls back a bit and meets Hank's eye. "You're drunk," he says quietly.

"Yeah, usually." Hank feels the shame prickling back again.

"Not as often, lately."

Hank shrugs.

"I just don't want to do these things with you when you've been drinking, Hank. Talking is good, although I don't know that I did that right either, but." Connor flexes his fingers in a way Hank recognizes as shorthand for "I wish I had my coin to fiddle with right now."

"But," Hank prompts him, when it looks like Connor's forgotten to continue his thought.

"But I'm not comfortable with more than this right now."

"Hey, that's fine," Hank says. "'s my fault for drinking too much tonight, and for being a general shithead to you over this."

"You weren't--well. You did hurt me by pulling away. But I understand. It's not my turn, but I have one more thing to tell you."

"All right."

"I think about being in bed with you, at night. Being wrapped up in your arms while you're asleep."

Hank smiles. "That's one of mine."

"Well," Connor says cautiously, "do you think I could join you, tonight?"

Hank kisses him again. "Of course. Please."

"And...we can pick things up in the morning?"

"I'd love to."

Hank's head is swimming, as he stumbles off to bed, and he doesn't know if it's the nerves or the booze hitting him harder. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hank is used to waking up hungover. He hates it, every time, but it's a familiar sort of hatred. He's also used to taking a moment in the morning to indulge in his favorite well-worn fantasies of Connor; even when guilt sneaks up on him, he can't help himself, lately.

Hank's a restless sleeper, and usually wakes up wrapped around a spare blanket that's gotten bunched up beneath him overnight. It's bright in the room already, even without opening his eyes, so he keeps them shut and stays wrapped up and warm in bed, half-asleep and thinking of Connor. _Yesterday morning he was so beautiful_, Hank thinks lazily, and he shifts his hips, pressing his morning erection against the blankets beside him.

He imagines Connor slipping into the shower with him; he'd lather Hank up, tease him by brushing against his cock as if by accident. Surely, he thinks, Connor would be an unholy terror of a cocktease, watching his pulse or something to see how worked up he could get before giving in and jerking him off. Before that he'd stand behind Hank under the hot spray, working soap over his chest and teasing his nipples. Hank would be panting by the end of it: Connor's hand in a loose fist over his cock, giving only the slightest pressure as he pinched and pulled at his nipples; maybe he'd lean up and whisper in Hank's ear that he couldn't come until he asked nicely.

"Oh, fuck," Hank groans out loud, then. He isn't even touching himself yet and his arousal is painful, a hot ache he can't ignore. He thrusts against the mass of blankets again, more firmly. "Connor, please--"

He's completely unprepared to receive a response.

"Please what, Hank?"

It's at this moment that Hank opens his eyes, fully wakes up, and realizes several things.

1) the blankets he's wrapped around are, in fact, Connor.

2) the vaguely-remembered dream about Connor pouncing on him and trading fantasies was not a dream.

3) Connor hasn't run away yet.

"You aren't a dream," Hank says, because he's still trying to find his footing and stating the obvious is the best he can do in the moment.

Connor turns over so he's facing Hank, and pulls Hank's arm back around him when he nervously starts to draw it away. "Do you remember what we talked about last night?"

"Yeah. Thought I made it up, but here you are."

"Here I am." Connor presses himself closer, somehow; his thigh gently nudges against Hank's cock, still hard. "Do you want to tell me what that 'please' was for?"

"Shit, you really do want this, don't you?"

"As much as you do, I think." Connor kisses Hank's collarbone where it's peeking out of the undershirt he slept in, and licks a hot trail up his neck to his ear. "Will you tell me?"

There's no way Hank can say no to this. Not to Connor. He rocks gently against Connor's thigh as he tells him. "I thought about you in the shower with me, soaping me up. Teasing me. You weren't--" his voice hitches as Connor slides a hand down to squeeze at his ass. "Weren't going to let me come until I asked for it."

Connor moans into Hank's mouth, a sweet, delicious sound, and tangles his hand in Hank's sleep-rumpled hair. "I like that one," he says, "but what you said last night, about me holding you down." He pushes against Hank's shoulder and Hank lets himself be rolled onto his back. "I haven't stopped thinking about it."

Hank huffs out a laugh. "I told you that half an hour before we went to bed, how much time have you had to think about it?"

"I was only in stasis for a short period of time last night. I've been fully alert, wanting you, for six hours. Being able to hear your breathing and your heartbeat and feel the warmth of your body next to mine made it much more pleasurable to imagine what intercourse with you would feel like than it has been in the past. Still, I want to experience it for myself."

Hank takes a moment, in his still-hungover and headachey state, to admire the view before him and let all that sink in.

Connor is perched over his thighs, dressed in the old t-shirt and boxers Hank now remembers pulling out of his pajama drawer for him last night. He looks artfully disheveled, not a mess like Hank knows his is. But he's _here_ anyway, perched on Hank's old, messy, hungover self and somehow interested in Hank. Interested in sex with Hank. In being close to him. For the thousandth time, he thinks about how beautiful Connor is.

"You're gorgeous," he says, because he never has before. Not directly. Not out loud.

"Not goofy-looking?" Connor answers, with a fucking wink because he is an utter menace bent on tormenting Hank.

"You can look goofy and gorgeous at the same time, I promise." He pulls Connor down for a kiss and loses himself in the warmth of his mouth for a while.

Connor wiggles a bit, finding the most comfortable position, and whines when his cock makes contact with Hank's; there's only thin, threadbare layers of cloth between them.

"Hank," he says, in between messy kisses, "I have spent the past six hours waiting until I could pin you to this bed and have you fuck me. I'm a little impatient." He shimmies out of his clothes faster than Hank's ever seen him move, and Hank's awestruck by the sight of him.

Of course he knew Connor would be just as beautiful naked, but. It wasn't like he could have prepared himself for just how lovely he'd be. He's silent, transfixed by the sight, and Connor must interpret his silence as hesitation because he curls in on himself, just a bit, as his fingers nervously toy with the hem of Hank's undershirt. "If you still want to, that is."

Hank sits up and wraps his arms around Connor, pulling him back into his lap as he leans back against the headboard. "I don't want you to have any doubts about how much I--" he swallows the end of that sentence.  
Starts again. "How much I want this. I just don't want to rush things if it feels like we're moving too fast."

Connor gives Hank a look that's half-fond, half-exasperated, before draping himself pointedly against him, the way he had the night before. Pressing up against every part of him. "Hank," Connor says sweetly. Patiently. "I have been wide awake, with your hand pressed to my chest, your breath in my ear, and your erection prodding my backside for six. Hours. I don't feel rushed." He tugs on Hank's earlobe with his teeth. "I'm ready for you."

"You know what you want, don't you, sweetheart?" Hank says, and he places his hands on Connor's thighs, admiring how Connor's eyes widen when he makes contact. "You thought you'd be sensitive here, didn't you?" He asks casually, stroking his inner thigh. "Should I check and see?"

Hank slouches down a bit and pulls Connor forward until he's kneeling in front of him. His cock is flushed and nearly eye-level with Hank, but he exerts considerable willpower to ignore it for the moment while he kisses the softness of Connor's thigh.

Connor is indeed extremely sensitive here; he makes a strangled, undignified sound and grips Hank's hair in surprise when he presses the first hot, open-mouthed kiss to Connor's skin. Hank chuckles and pats Connor's hip. "Feel good?"

"You know it does," Connor pants above him.

"Sometimes it's nice to hear it, though," Hank says. "Where else do you want me to touch you?" The obvious answer is so close Hank could turn his head and give it a lick, so he does.

"Oh! Yes, please," Connor says. "If. If you want to."

"Not much I want more than this right now," Hank says, and he gently sucks the head of Connor's cock into his mouth.

He briefly wonders if he's good at this anymore; it's been a long while since he's had the opportunity to practice. _It's like riding a bicycle, right?_ He thinks to himself, before he remembers he was never any good at riding a bicycle. Always had a knack for sucking a guy off, though, so he figures he'll be all right.

Connor approves, at least; Hank figures he doesn't have any experience to compare it to, but still an unsatisfying blowjob is an unsatisfying blowjob. Connor seems, well. He seems pretty satisfied. Hank gets into a good rhythm, once he gets used to the feel of a cock in his mouth again. Connor fits comfortably in his mouth for the most part, although Hank's sure his jaw will be sore later. It'll be worth it.

Connor doesn't taste like much, which is odd at first; there's some sort of liquid that he can feel, but it's fairly neutral, almost like slightly metallic mineral water. Not unpleasant, just unusual, but Hank hopes that soon every part of Connor will feel familiar. Connor whines and moans above him, but before too long--too soon, in Hank's opinion--he tugs gently at Hank's hair and pulls away.

"It's wonderful," Connor pants, "but I'd rather reach my first orgasm with you while you're inside me."

Hank can't argue with that.

"I got distracted from taking your clothes off," Connor frets, but it's quick work to rectify this. He gently presses Hank flat on his back and makes no attempt to hide the way he drinks in the sight of him.

"You're so handsome," he says, reverently, and Hank can see he means it.

Hank always glossed over the presence of his own body in his fantasies about Connor. He doesn't feel great about himself, but there's a tired resignation to it; he doesn't have the energy to actively hate his body, either. It's just...there. When he's laid bare beneath Connor, the nervousness he expected to feel welling up inside him never comes. Maybe it's because Connor's staring at him so hungrily, like he's doing some sort of computation to see where he should touch him first. Hank wouldn't put it past him.

Connor licks his lips as he looks down at Hank. "Can I touch you?" he asks, and Hank almost laughs at the thought of him saying no to Connor right now.

"You can do whatever you like with me," he rumbles. "That's the plan, right?"

Connor faceplants in the middle of his chest and rubs his cheek against the gray curls there before pressing a kiss to Hank's sternum. "I still want to make sure I'm not doing something you don't like, you know."

"How about this," Hank says slowly. "There's nowhere I'm not comfortable with you touching me, and I don't think there's much of anything you might want to do that I wouldn't enjoy. And..." he closes his eyes for a moment, feeling the blush creeping over his face. It's embarrassing, a man of his age going red in the face like a kid, but he can't help it. "And I like the idea of you taking the reins, here. I'll tell you if I'm not into anything, I promise, but. You're new to all this, do you want to call the shots for now?"

This seems to be the right suggestion. "I'm happy to," Connor says. He looks thoughtfully at Hank's hands, now resting lightly on Connor's thighs, and taps them gently. "Can you put your hands behind your head for me?"

"Thought you were gonna hold them in place," Hank drawls, but he tucks them up under his head anyway. He wants to be touching Connor, of course, but this is all right.

"I haven't forgotten," Connor purrs, "but until then I don't want you distracting me." He takes his time exploring Hank's body; Hank might call it torture, but it's the best thing he's felt in ages. Connor's so attentive, so curious; it feels like he's analyzing every touch to see how Hank responds and applying that knowledge to make him melt more with everything he does. It's overwhelming, and Connor's barely started.

"You're going to give me a heart attack," Hank manages to say, while Connor kisses his way up his thighs. "I'm not used to this."

"Used to what?" Connor asks, propping his head on the arm that's draped over Hank's leg. He's staring at Hank's cock, flushed and hard and so far mostly untouched; Hank knows Connor's been teasing him deliberately by skirting around it, but it looks like his willpower won't last.

"Feeling good," Hank says, and it's not at all what he means to say (he isn't sure, honestly, what he thought would come out of his mouth but it wasn't that), but it's true. "When you're around," he continues hesitantly, "everything feels better, but this is uh. You know. More."

Connor just smiles and presses a messy kiss to the base of Hank's cock; Hank moans and his hips jerk, almost lifting him off the bed, and he's amazed he manages to keep his hands where they are when he wants to grab Connor by the hair and hold him there.

"You love teasing me like that, huh?" Hank growls, and Connor has the nerve to look affronted before he gives him a wink.

"I'm not teasing, I'm building anticipation." He gently pulls Hank's foreskin back and licks a bead of pre-come off the tip. "It's completely different."

"Sure it is."

"Not just your anticipation, Hank," Connor says. "Touching you just a bit, taking my time...it allows me to anticipate how it'll feel to have you inside me. I'm making myself wait, too." He kisses Hank's cock again, messily, and slides it into his warm mouth.

And fuck, it's good; Hank hasn't had this in a long time either. He hasn't had much of anything with another person in enough years that he's half-forgotten how good it feels, how different it is to experience pleasure with another person and not just with your own hand. "Maybe," Hank gasps, "maybe you've made yourself wait long enough."

"Hmmm," Connor hums thoughtfully with his mouth full, as if he's pondering a serious question and not continuing to torment Hank. He pulls off of Hank's cock, giving the head a messy parting kiss. "You're quite large," Connor says, matter-of-factly, "so I might need to take things slow at first."

"That's why you're running the show, hon," Hank says, and he knows it's ridiculous to preen when someone mentions how well-endowed he is but he lets himself bask in it anyway. Hank likes being a big guy, he always has, but he also likes, REALLY likes, the thought of Connor being strong enough to hold him down while he rides him like a stolen bicycle. The fact that he's packing enough to give Connor a ride he can really feel...yeah, he gets off on that a bit.

His heart sinks as a sudden thought occurs to him. "Shit, I don't have any lube." Hank sits halfway up, his arms waving towards his nightstand even though he knows he hasn't kept anything in it for years. "I can't believe I didn't think of this earlier, fuck, I'm sorry."

Connor just gives him a shit-eating grin and presses him back down with a palm flat on his chest. Hank has the strong suspicion that he's going to get hard any time Connor casually touches him there in the future; all this pushing and positioning Connor's been doing is scratching an itch he didn't even know he had. He lets himself be rearranged back on the bed and waits for Connor's explanation.

"Hands to yourself, please, Hank, but let me show you one of the features of the new genital components I had installed."

And before Hank can fully parse that sentence and wrap his mind around what sort of features Connor might be referring to, Connor's swung himself around so he's straddling Hank's waist, facing his feet. One hand grasps Hank's right wrist, holding it to the bed as a reminder. The other--and now Hank maybe is going to have that heart attack, christ--the other hand slides down the cleft of his ass before teasing at the rim of his hole.

Hank whimpers.

Connor slides a finger inside and Hank can see a wet shine on his finger as he pulls it back out. "You have a fucking self-lubricating asshole."

"Mmmhmm," Connor replies, sounding incredibly smug. "I paid extra for the upgrade. Do you want to watch me get ready for you?"

"Yes," Hank breathes. He wants to touch Connor himself, but he can't complain about the view. Connor moans as he slides two fingers inside himself.

"Your hand's a little small, isn't it?" Hank asks. "Mine's a lot larger, it'd be better at getting you used to the feel of something big inside you."

Connor's hand on his wrist clamps down tighter. "Hands to yourself, remember."

"Just saying," Hank says with a laugh. He risks a quick sit-up to press a kiss to the back of Connor's calf. "I'll behave."

"Good," Connor says, and then falls silent as he rocks his hips back onto his fingers. He adds a third with a satisfied sigh.

"Have you done this often?"

"A few times," Connor responds. "Just with my fingers. Nothing larger. Not like you."

"Keep stroking my ego, I appreciate it."

"I'm not complimenting you, Hank, I'm--oh--I'm stating a fact. Your penis size is well above average for a cisgender man."

Connor pulls out his fingers, spilling a trickle of lube onto Hank's chest. "I'm ready." He turns around and wipes up the lube, smoothing it onto Hank's aching cock; it's warm from Connor's body heat, and Hank's worried he's going to lose his goddamn mind before they even start.

"Take your time," Hank says. He tries to squeeze the hand that's holding him down and Connor repositions it so their fingers are interlaced. He holds Hank's cock in his other hand and lines himself up, pressing back incredibly slowly as his body opens up for him.

"Oh," Connor says, as Hank first slips inside him. "This is quite a bit different than just my fingers."

"Good different?"

"Yes, it's just..." Connor trails off and closes his eyes as he adjusts. "You really are much bigger." He rocks forward, then presses back again.

"Give me your hand?" Hank asks, holding up his free hand, and Connor takes it, bracing against him in the air as he works himself down, agonizingly slowly, until Hank is fully sheathed inside him. "Fuck, you feel amazing." He thinks he might cry.

"You fit perfectly inside me," Connor says, and he slowly shifts up, nearly pulling himself off of Hank's cock entirely, before easing back down, getting used to the feel of it. "It's like you were made for me."

Those words stir up something deep and aching within Hank's chest. Hank doesn't believe in fate, in soulmates, in his dick being preordained from birth for its perfect home in the self-lubricating ass of an android whose creator hadn't even been born yet. But he does believe, with a certainty that frightens him sometimes, that Connor feels like home. That they fit together in a way that feels easy, feels _right_ like nothing ever has for him.

"Made just for you, sweetheart," he says, and Connor smiles and gently kisses the back of his hand as rolls his hips.

"I believe," Connor says, "you said you wanted me to take my time with you, correct?"

Hank nods, and Connor bends forward to give him a sweet, messy kiss.

"And that I should use you--"he braces a hand on Hank's chest and roughly tweaks a nipple with the other--"however I want?"

"Fuck yeah," Hank breathes, wondering how on earth he's going to last through more than a minute of this.

"Hands by your head, please," Connor says, and he gives Hank's nipples a parting pinch before he grips each one, pinning Hank's arms to the bed.

Hank's pretty sure he wouldn't be able to throw Connor off unless Connor wanted him to, and his cock twitches at the thought; he'd forgotten how much he liked feeling like he _wasn't_ the strongest one in the room, sometimes. Like someone else could take him.

Or take care of him.

When Hank had fantasies about this, about being held in place and ridden like he was just an object to provide pleasure, he'd always felt slightly guilty, like it was just laziness to want someone else to do all the work for him. How would _he_ ever deserve to just lie there? And who would even want that from him?

But here, with Connor stretched strong and beautiful above him, Hank doesn't feel lazy or useless. He feels like a foundation. He feels free. All he needs to do (all he_ wants_ to do) is stay still and let Connor take whatever he wants.

Connor starts off moving slowly, tentatively, but as he adjusts to the feel of Hank inside him and isn't so overwhelmed by the new sensations, he picks up a different rhythm, rolling his hips faster. With every thrust downwards, Connor cries out; it's a gorgeous sound.

"How does it feel?" Hank asks. He's trying to be good, to hold himself back from thrusting up into Connor, but he can't help a gentle rock of his hips when Connor's sounding so fucking good.

"Perfect," Connor says. "You're so deep inside me, it feels..." he trails off with a whine and seems distracted for a minute before he speaks again. "I feel it everywhere." Connor sits upright, lifting Hank's hands and placing them on his chest, one over the other, before he braces on top of them with one hand while the other grips his own thigh.

Connor starts riding him in earnest now, snapping his hips with a force that startles Hank at first. If he tried to do that, he knows, his knees would give out in an instant. Connor's still whining and moaning every time his ass falls flush with Hank's hips, and Hank can't help the answering sounds that slip out of him as the pace increases.

"Look at you, Hank," Connor says, his voice low and thick with desire. "You're being so good for me. Holding still. Filling me up. You're beautiful like this."

Something comes loose inside Hank. He feels tears welling up in his eyes, and as one escapes and makes its way down his cheek Connor reaches down to brush it away.

"It's all right," he says. "You can let go. Do you want to come?"

Hank can only nod; if he opens his mouth he might start sobbing.

"Come for me, baby. Come on."

Hank nuzzles into Connor's hand and kisses his fingers, his palm, whatever he can reach. Connor keeps murmuring encouragement, the sweetest things Hank thinks he's ever been told in his goddamn life, and it's just too much. With a wordless cry he shakes and mouths at Connor's hand and comes.

Connor gasps above him and takes his hand off of Hank's chest, stroking himself as he feels Hank release inside him.

He's unable to properly enjoy the sight of Connor lost in his own pleasure; the tears are flowing in earnest now, so his vision's blurry, but Hank's overloaded mind still has room to hope that they might do this again, and he'll have another chance to see.

Connor's quiet when he comes, emitting just a small sigh, but it's full of pleasure and contentment. He slows the roll of his hips, sensing that Hank's quickly approaching oversensitivity, but he doesn't pull off quite yet. Hank wants to stay inside him as long as he can, so he doesn't mind at all.

"You all right?" Hank asks. He reaches up to touch Connor, hesitating at first after so long keeping his hands to himself, but Connor laughs, grabs his hands, and gives them a squeeze.

"I'm fine, Hank. I'm wonderful." Connor peers at him, concerned. "You're still crying."

Hank sniffles. "Yeah, guess I am. 's ok, though."

"Are you sure?" Connor shifts above him, winces a bit as he gingerly climbs off of Hank and lies down next to him. He curls up in the cradle of Hank's arm and presses his hand above his heart. "I haven't seen you cry like this before."

"Sometimes," Hank says, trying to shed the embarrassment that always clings to him when someone sees him crying. "Sometimes you just cry because you're feeling too much, you know?" He rubs Connor's back in slow, smooth strokes and feels him relax just a bit. "It's good, though. Promise."

"You'd tell me, if it wasn't." It's not a question.

"I would, sure, but this...this was perfect. I--"

Hank feels a fresh wave of embarrassment as his voice breaks, but holding Connor, feeling him warm and real and gentle beside him, helps it wash over him without dragging him down.

He's spent a lot of time feeling pathetic, lately, when he thinks about Connor. This is better. Hank takes a deep breath. "I really am sorry, Connor, for hurting you. For ignoring you because I couldn't stop thinking about how much I wanted you." He kisses Connor's forehead. "Wanted this."

Connor tips his chin up and kisses Hank on the lips, sweet and open, and Hank wants to sink into his mouth and drown there.

"I don't know why you thought I'd be angry with you, even if I didn't feel the same way."

Hank's quiet for a moment, gathering his thoughts. He keeps petting Connor's back, and the feel of his soft skin beneath his hand is comforting. "It's hard," Hank says, "to feel like I'm worth much of anything, some days. Most days, if I'm honest. Guess I'm trying to be worth something again, at least, but it's a hard slog sometimes. And you're this bright shining thing in my life, Connor, you're so precious to me."

"It felt wrong to want what I want, like I'd fuck you up just by touching you." Hank winces at the look Connor shoots him, and he raises his hand placatingly. "I know it's bullshit, I do. But humans are good at knowing something's bullshit and believing it anyway."

"It _is_ bullshit," Connor says. He kisses Hank again. "If I do this enough--" another kiss. "--will it help?"

"Hmmm," Hank says, thoughtfully, trying to keep a straight face as Connor covers his neck and chest with kisses. "I think we'll need to conduct some extended research."

"As long as you like," Connor says, like it's the easiest thing in the world. He rolls out of bed, pulling Hank with him. "But let's continue our research in the shower."

"What, you don't like my jizz running down your leg?"

"I'd be happy to tell you how much I like it, but if I got started I'd never let you leave the bed, and we _do_ have other things to take care of on our day off." He gives Hank's ass a little slap as he lumbers into the bathroom. "Just remind me to tell you, in detail, later tonight."

"Sure thing, sweetheart," Hank says, feeling the shape of the endearment on his tongue. He can't imagine he'll ever get tired of saying it. He sighs as the hot water kicks in, already thinking about how good it'll feel to stand under the spray and let the heat sink into him as he helps wash Connor's thighs clean.

And then, he thinks, he has more to look forward to: making breakfast with Connor. Taking Sumo out to his favorite park. Watching the game, maybe with Connor's head in his lap so he can run his fingers through his hair. Taking Connor to bed again. And again.

"You're crying again," Connor notices, as he steps into the shower. "Still good?"

"Yeah." Hank sniffs awkwardly. "Be patient with me? I'll stop being a weepy mess in a minute."

"Of course," Connor says. "Take your time."


End file.
